Dogsitting
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: Romano has to dog-sit for Germany's stupid-ass, definitely not scary dogs when his brother and the potato bastard go on vacation. Even for an Italian badass such as Romano, this won't be easy. Spamano one-shot. Hannahkah present for ChibiAnimeFreak.


**DOGSITTING**

**RATING: T**

**PAIRINGS: Spamano, implied GerIta**

**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: Romano has to dog-sit for Germany's stupid-ass, definitely not scary dogs when his brother and the potato bastard go on vacation. Even for an Italian badass such as Romano, this won't be easy.**

**LENGTH: One-shot.**

**POV: Romano**

**Hetalia characters, please consider yourselves disclaimed. (Like a boss.)**

**This story was a Hannakah present for Hannah, a.k.a. ChibiAnimeFreak.**

* * *

><p><em>Hi, <em>Fratello_!_

_So, you know that Luddy and I are going away on vacation, right? Well, Luddy's dogs were going to be all alone in our great big house with nobody to take care of them for those entire two weeks – how horrible is that – and Luddy wouldn't let Gil look after them because, well, he didn't tell me exactly why but it was something really, really bad and I think it involved France and whipped cream and now I'm scared and I can't remember what I was even writing about –_

_Okay. I remember now._

_So, I told Luddy, "_Fratello_ will take care of them for you, ve~!" and he didn't believe me at first but eventually I believed him because he knows that you're really nice at heart.~_

_Well, Luddy says we have to leave soon, so I have to finish writing. Remember to feed the dogs twice a day with wurst and mashed potatoes – but no beer, they're scary when they're drunk._

_And give them lots of love~!_

_Your favorite _Fratello_,_

_Feliciano~ _

I read my stupid brother's note. Then, I read it again. And again. And again.

I can almost _hear_ his stupid little "_ve~_"s in between the lines of that goddamned thing.

God, who the fuck does he think he is, making me look after his potato's dogs? Just because I let him marry the bastard does _not_ mean I'm their fucking _maid_ all of a sudden! Feli, even stupid as he is, should know that, damn it!

Well, apparently, he doesn't.

So you know what I'm gonna do?

I'm gonna …

I'm gonna …

…

Fucking _call_ him. Show him who's the _boss_.

Yeah.

So I take out my (badass) cell phone and dial his number (like a boss.)

His phone, the little fucker (it's pink and has hearts on it and isn't badass or manly at all because Feli is a total disgrace to the nature of badass Italian-ness) doesn't even ring. It just goes straight to voicemail.

"_Ciao~! This is Feliciano Vargas, also known as Italy Veneziano, the personification of North Italy, ve!~ I'm probably eating pasta or with Luddy and can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll call you back when I get a chance! _Grazie!_ Hasta la pasta!~ … Oh, no, I don't know which button to press! Ludddyyyy! _**It's this one. **_This –_"

"Hey, Feli, this is your badass older brother," I snarl into my phone. "Now, listen to me very, very carefully. Are you listening? Good. You better be. When you get back from your stupid-ass vacation with your even stupider potato bastard, I _will_ break every single fucking bone in your pathetic little body _and never let you eat pasta again_. Prepare for Arma-fucking-geddon, little brother. _Ciao_, motherfucker."

I hang up (like a boss), smiling to myself as I imagine the look that will be on his face when he gets my message. He'll probably be sniveling and crying and running to the potato bastard like the cowardly worm he is (like the complete fucking opposite of a boss.)

Maybe I should call the potato bastard and ask him to take pictures.

…

Nah, he's too much of a stick in the mud to do that.

…

Damn.

…

Anyway, now that telling Feli that doom awaits him when he comes home is taken care of, I need to decide what to do with the dogs themselves. They're sitting in three cages – one per dog – like the obedient, German bastards they are on the front steps of my house, where my brother and his potato dropped them off earlier.

Now, let me tell you something about Germany's dogs. They aren't _small_ dogs – they're the size of fucking lions. And they're well-trained – _really_ well-trained. Like, the potato bastard spends fucking hours training these fuckers to obey his every command. They're always really happy to obey his stupid commands, too. I bet they're even happy when he punishes them for … for … whatever the fuck he punishes them for. I bet they're masochistic little fuckers.

I'm most definitely a cat person (n-not, because they're fluffy and cute and love to cuggle like a certain Spaniard I know, definitely not, fuck you), but that doesn't mean I'm scared of them. Why would I be scared of them? I'm an Italian badass and _nothing_ scares me. Not even France the Fuck-face. Take that, bitches.

Although …

Germany's dogs to freak me out a little … how well-trained and obedient they are … how German they are … how, with a single command from their potato master, they could rip me apart …

They don't scare me, though! I am an Italian badass and nothing scares me. I AM AN ITALIAN BADASS AND NOTHING SCARES ME.

And if you don't believe that, well, you can just go fuck yourself.

Yeah.

…

I think I'm just going to lock those monsters up in my spare closet until Feli and his potato get back.

* * *

><p>Well, it's been a day, and I'm most definitely <em>not<em> feeling guilty about keeping the potato bastard's mongrels locked up in my spare closet all this time. They deserve It, the little fuckers. I haven't fed them yet, either, so maybe they'll die of starvation. That would _so_ teach my brother and Germany to not drop them with me without any warning whatsoever. Fuck yeah.

At the moment, I'm in my room, completely ignoring those fuckers, watching some television like a fucking boss, eating tomatoes instead of popcorn. (Seriously, popcorn doesn't even _try_ to compare to the amazing badassery that is tomatoes.) I'm not sure exactly what I'm watching – some shitty sitcom, probably.

Then, suddenly, I hear a loud thump, too loud to come from the television.

Um … that's not creepy at all …

A second thump follows, then a third.

This is starting to feel like one of those horror movies America likes scaring himself with so much.

Well, I won't let that bother me. I'm a badass Italian, remember? Badass Italians do _not_ run and/or hide from mysterious thumping potential monsters/Frenchman. (Well, Feli does. But he isn't badass, so he doesn't count.)

I turn off the television (I waste enough money without extra on the electricity bills, damn it), get off my bed, slip on my amazing, tomato-colored slippers, and walk over to the door of my room. I open aforementioned door like a boss, with a little, "HYA!" to scare away any monsters that might be out there. (Not that I really think there are monsters out there, of course.)

And …

_Holy fucking shit._

_What. The. Crapola._

No sooner do I step out of my room when I'm fucking _attacked_ by evil, slobering demons that want to eat my soul.

Or, you know, Germany's dogs.

Same difference.

_Fuck_, I never noticed how big the fuckers are until I came face-to-fucking-muzzle with them like this.

Not an enjoyable experience, I can assure you.

I don't even bother to think; I just let my Italian reflexes take over and retreat. (Not that I'm always retreating. Other people retreat from my badassness, but me? Retreating? No fucking way. Germany's dogs are just … um … a special case. Yeah, a special case. That's right.)

Seriously, though, it's lucky that I'm such a boss at retreating, because if I wasn't, those dogs definitely would've ripped by heart out and eaten it before I'm safely behind my locked bedroom door. (After all, they haven't eaten in an entire day; they must be pretty damned hungry by now.)

By the way, for the record, I most certainly did _not_ scream, "AAAH! RUN AWAY LIKE A GOOD ITALIAN!" while I was fleeing the dogs. That was just the wind. Wind screams. And it sounds kind-of like me.

…

You heard nothing.

NOTHING, I SAY.

…

A-anyway.

Standing with my back to the door, recovering from my traumatic experience only seconds earlier, I wonder how the dogs managed to get out of the closet. I did lock the door. At least, I think I did. I'm almost positive I did. Like, 99.99% positive. Or maybe 90%.

…

Definitely over 50% …

…

Well, even if it wasn't locked (which it definitely _was_), how did they turn the door knob?

…

Damn.

Those are freakily smart dogs.

I mean, they _are_ Germany's dogs (not that I admit the potato bastard is smart – he _isn't_), but _still_ …

My train of thought is interrupted when something crashes into the door, knocking me forward. It must be one of those damned dogs. Fucking _shit_.

…

How is it that I can push the damned dresser all the way to the door now but couldn't budge it an inch when I wanted to find the pen I dropped behind it last week?

Weird.

There's a thud as one of the mongrels – or maybe more than one – slams into the door. I remember that, a couple of years back, those dogs broke into a storage room when I idiot brother accidentally dropped the key to it in a sewer; it'll be no trouble at all for them to get into my room.

And then they'll …

They'll …

…

Eat me.

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

_French_ shit.

_German_ shit.

_English_ shit.

_**A combination of French, German, and English**_ shit.

…

That's some shitty shit.

…

But seriously. _Shit_.

I don't want to be eaten, damn it!

I'm too badass to be eaten!

I'm too fucking _Italian_ to be eaten!

…

Well, there's only one thing to do, and it's not rely on my hidden martial arts skills, believe it or not – I … um … like to use my hidden martial arts skills for more badass battles than fighting Germany's dogs. Y-yeah. That's it.

…

I'm …

I'm call …

I'm calling …

Fuck, I can't even think it.

…

Now, Lovino, you are a badass Italian and you will not show weakness. You will not show weakness. You will not –

"Antonio, you need to get over here _right this fucking second_, you damn bastard! I'm barricaded in my room and the potato bastard's dog are trying to eat me and I'm scared so GET YOUR SEXY – I MEAN UGLY – SPANISH ASS OVER HERE AND SAVE ME, DAMN IT! OR I'LL … I'LL … DESTROY ALL OF YOUR FUCKING TOMATOES! I MEAN THAT!"

…show weakness.

Fuck.

* * *

><p>It's been two hours – two long, terrifying, fucking hours – of listening to the monsters slowly coming closer and closer to eating me, and he hasn't come yet.<p>

Where is he, damn it?

I don't need him here or anything, but … um … it would be really nice if he got here SOON BEFORE THE FUCKERS ATE ME, DAMN IT.

…

Suddenly, I hear footsteps from the hallway outside of my room.

Well, speak of the fucking devil.

(Yes, he has a key to my house. I gave it to him because I was tired of letting him in when he came here, drunk, at three A.M. Shut up. Stop laughing. Right now. Fuck you. Actually, no. I wouldn't stoop that low. Go fuck yourself.)

I'm definitely not holding my breath, worried about what the dogs will do to him. I'm not listening at the door to every sound I can possibly hear, either. Nope, not at all.

What I _do_ hear – from where I'm sitting on the _bed_, not next to the door – is this:

Three thumps, some excited barking, and … laughter?

… The hell?

I didn't know dogs could laugh – especially not _German _dogs.

It sounds more like _his_ laugh, though …

…

Fuck being scared (not that I was scared or anything, I just didn't want to be eaten), I'm going to go see what's going on.

I open the door (after walking over there, of course.)

…

Well, slick back my hair and call me a potato.

That damned tomato bastard is sitting there with the dogs, playing with them! Petting them! Hugging them! Making them happy! Being happy!

He's such an annoying … not lovable, not at all … idiot.

I'm _not_ smiling at the sight of him. Not. At. Fucking. All.

He stops laughing long enough to notice me, and then says, "Oh, hi, Lovi~! See, they didn't want to eat you! They just needed a little love, and then they'd be your best friends. Kind of like you, _mi querido_, don't you think~?"

It must be my stupid Italian instincts again or something, because I find myself running as fast as I can for the second time in about as many hours.

But not running away this time.

Running _to_.

Straight into his arms.

It's been centuries since I let him hug me, and it's not exactly _great_, but, well, I guess it's not bad. He's warm and soft and comfortable, okay?

But don't ever tell him I said that, or I'd have to kill you.

With a tomato-blaster.

Like a fucking _boss_.

…

"Thanks, bastard," I mumble into his shoulder.

"You're welcome, Lovi~," he replies, and I can just _hear_ his huge, sunshiny grin in his voice. "You know I'd do anything for you."

_I'd do anything for you, too,_ I think to myself.

I can't say something like that to him.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

><p>"S-so if you throw this stupid stick, then they'll run after it and bring it back to you, and if you keep throwing it, they'll be entertained and not try to eat you or anything?"<p>

"_S__ì_~! But, Lovi, I keep telling you, they don't eat people …"

"They're _potato dogs_. They are _not fucking trustworthy_. They just like you because you're too stupid to know better."

"Aw, _gracias_, Lovi~!"

"It wasn't a fucking compliment … Okay, throwing the stick."

"…"

"Fuck, he caught it. In his fucking teeth. That's fucking messed up."

"Lovi, could you maybe try to not use the f-word so much? It's uncute."

"Like I fucking care. Now drop the damned stick, you little fucker."

"..."

"I _said_, drop it!"

"…"

"_FUCKING DROP IT, DAMN YOU!_"

"…"

"OW! IT BIT ME! I'VE BEEN BITTEN BY A DOG! HOLY FUCKING SHIT! CALL A DOCTOR! GET ME TO THE HOSPITAL! DO SOMETHING OTHER THAN STANDING THERE AND LAUGHING, DAMN IT!"

"Lovi, you just had to show him some love, and he would've given it to you …"

"DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO GIVES A SHIT? LOOK AT THIS FACE. DOES IT LOOK LIKE THE FACE OF SOMEONE WHO GIVES A SHIT? DOES IT? _**DOES IT?**_"

"Ah, Lovi, I think I should take you to the hospital … that bite might be poisonous …"

"That's what I _thought_ you said, bastard."

* * *

><p><strong>I love writing Spamano. So much. Romano's POV is just so fun to write ... he's kind-of a bad influence on me, though. I swear in my head all the time, now. ~.<strong>

**Review and I will shower you with many, many virtual tomatoes! 8D**


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